


The Parable of the Purl

by flakyfreak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs Therapy (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley Tries (Good Omens), Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Knitting, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Romantic Angst, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28103439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flakyfreak/pseuds/flakyfreak
Summary: “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant seeking beautiful pearls, who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had and bought it." Matthew 13:45-46Crowley sat on his stupidly uncomfortable couch and stared at the needles. How hard could it be?(In which the world didn't end, nothing really changes, and so Crowley does what anyone who has 6000 years of experience repressing his feelings does. He picks up knitting.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	The Parable of the Purl

**Author's Note:**

> So. Hello. I have decided to test my hand at writing my first ever chaptered fic. When brainstorming, I asked myself "What do I need to write? What would help me to write right now?" As someone who also,,, recently,,,, picked up knitting, this is where I ended up. The prologue is shorter than the other chapters will be and is the only portion not from Crowley or Aziraphale's perspective.
> 
> Stay tuned for weekly updates, and, as always, let me know what you think ;)

_“A farmer planted seed. As he scattered the seed, some of it fell on the road, and birds ate it. Some fell in the gravel; it sprouted quickly but didn’t put down roots, so when the sun came up it withered just as quickly. Some fell in the weeds; as it came up, it was strangled by the weeds. Some fell on good earth, and produced a harvest beyond his wildest dreams."_

_Matthew 13:4-8_

* * *

The man shifted his weight again. The movement was not so subtle as it might have been on others. This man’s hips moved like an over-oiled hinge. He stood for a few more moments staring at the worsteds, his fingers uncertainly plucking at a few skeins of a more muted hue. Richard didn’t really care for that specific blend of wool, but it flew off of the shelves, and sometimes he had to think like a business owner instead of the simple, over-enthused knitter that he actually was. 

Richard had thrown himself into the world of entrepreneurship at the age of 34 when Deb, God bless her silly little heart, said to him, “You have enough yarn scattered through this flat to fill a craft store.” It was only a tease, but his sister’s words were exceptionally valid. Those words had wiggled around in his mind until he scraped together the nerve to quit his job and check out Small Business for Dummies from the London Public Library. 

Flash forward 15 years later, and here he was running Fiber Hearts, holding back a wry smile as this surprisingly goth customer returned to poke at the knitting needles for the… was it the third time? When he had entered the shop, Richard’s polite greeting had been so completely ignored that he wondered if he stayed up too late working on the baby blanket for his neighbor and he had only imagined speaking, but his attention was quickly diverted to another customer arriving at the register to check out. 

That had been 20 minutes ago. 

Now, the flaming-haired man had a collection of red and black skeins piled precariously in his arms, and he fumbled to keep hold of them as he crouched down to inspect the supply of bamboo needles. Even with the oddly dark sunglasses shielding his eyes, the look on the man’s face was as recognizable to Richard as his own reflection. It was the same look he’d seen just about once a week since opening the shop. It always made its appearance after the determined stride (or in this instance swagger, I mean for Pete’s sake, how does that man move like that?) gave way to halting circuits around the store and nervous shifting in front of the shelves. It was the look of someone who saw one aesthetically pleasing knitting account on Instagram and fancied themself a crafty enough person to give it a go and immediately googled ‘yarn stores near me’. This man, though, stood far apart from the over-eager teenagers and exuberant empty-nesters that typically broke down and asked for advice on where to begin. No, he seemed as modern as a model with his chic look and impractical eyewear. Unfortunately, in Richard’s experience, guys in their forties did not frequently pick up an interest in knitting, let alone guys in their forties who exude a subtly menacing aura and dress like the one currently making his way back towards the chunkier yarns. At this point, most customers would abandon their false confidence and get Richard’s attention. Not this man, though. He continued to peruse the merchandise for another 5 minutes, seemingly embarking on the route of purchasing one of everything. The proprietor sighed quietly and decided he better put this one out of his misery.

He crossed the shop in a few steps and spoke gently, “Hello there, is there anything I can help you with?” The anomalous customer turned towards him slightly, frowning, arms wrapped around his selected items lest they drop to the floor. His mouth opened and shut as he looked back and forth between the owner and the white Merino wool. 

“Wellllll, I just, nnn-. I just was working on a new project and thought I’d try a new store out,” the man drawled, obviously committed to resisting help. He was as transparent as the front windows. Richard was going to have to take a more direct approach.

“You’ve never been to a fiber art store in your life, have you?” Richard looked at the man, and the man looked back at him. They stared at each other until Richard began to wonder if maybe he wasn’t looking at him, with the sunglasses it was hard to--

The man’s shoulders suddenly went slack with defeat. _There it is_ , Richard thought.

“How am I supposed to know the bloody difference between Light Worsted and Worsted?” He growled and shook his head in exasperation. “And what the _fuck_ are these little pictures on back supposed to mean?” 

Richard chuckled. “Okay, okay. What’s your name?” He never saw any harm in investing in his customers as people rather than patrons. 

“Crowley,” he replied flatly. Luckily, Richard was never scared off by unfriendliness.

“Nice to meet you, Crowley. I’m Richard. I own the shop. Why don’t we figure out what you want to make and go from there, alright?” Crowley breathed out heavily through his nose and shrugged as best he could without jostling his haul. 

“Yeah, whatever. Sure.”

Another fifteen minutes later saw Crowley exiting the shop, the bell jingling as the door swung softly shut behind him. _What an odd guy._ Richard doubted he would see him again, as Crowley had seemed extremely fed up with the details of the craft by the time he acquired the appropriate needles and midnight wool for a beginner’s scarf. As it was, Fiber Hearts only had a couple handfuls of regulars. It took a certain kind of person to keep up with a knitting hobby, a certain kind of lifestyle to spend time and money making things you could just buy at the store. Crowley did not seem to be that kind of person.

Little did Richard know that Crowley was not a person at all. 


End file.
